


Warming up

by Not_Your_Dhoine



Series: Fire flies higher for no ash to thrash [2]
Category: Wiedźmin | The Witcher (Video Game)
Genre: Calming down, Curtain Fic, Fear of loss, Fluff, Iorveth and Roche are Husbands, M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-28
Updated: 2021-02-28
Packaged: 2021-03-12 08:08:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,156
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29756643
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Not_Your_Dhoine/pseuds/Not_Your_Dhoine
Summary: It had always ended with a kiss. And never began. Except for one time.
Relationships: Iorveth & Vernon Roche, Iorveth/Vernon Roche
Series: Fire flies higher for no ash to thrash [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2159550
Comments: 4
Kudos: 4





	Warming up

**Author's Note:**

> This little fic is one of the coming sequels to my work "Where The Fires Are Blossoming Bright" and a kind of a spoiler xDD (as only 22 chapters of 76 are yet published in English).  
> In my "fiction universe" Iorveth and Roche had finally become husbands :3 , and Iorveth lives in a forest house not so far from Vizima (he was granted forgiveness by Saskia and kept his head after becoming an ally in the war, but has to live "under the home arrest" from then on, though being free to hunt in the vast and guarded area). And Vernon spends much time in their house.

Iorveth felt soft embracing dampness of the tree trunk with his shoulder blades. 

Splash! 

A raindrop felt right on the top of his head – where the hair – as dark as the ancient roots – was parted to be later braided into an accurately looking plait. Though, this morning, after the archery training in the wind, the accuracy was not quite a precise word to describe his hairstyle. Despite all the efforts Vernon’s fingers had laid to it that morning. 

Talking about Vernon… 

The man was rooted to the spot, tickling Iorveth with this contemplating look of his. Another drop splashed – now on a lock of grown, rye color, hair. 

“What’s going on, Vernon?” 

They had just shared the same rain. 

“We need to go home.” 

The elf picked up a forget-me-not beaten up by the rain. Sticking it in the hair of his husband, Iorveth slowed the movement of the hand – to feel the rough undefeatable stubble on the jaw curve. 

“Yes, but why?” 

“Just because we need to.” 

Distant thunder growls seemed to exist only in the skies, not reaching Vernon’s mind. As all the way to the house he was looking at something under their feet on the ground. 

“Looking for a treasure, huh, **geatwe** **(dear, precious)**?” 

No answer followed, and Iorveth took Roche’s hand. Feeling the warmness of his wooden wedding bracelet. 

They quitted hold of the hands only in the proximity to the house – though both knew the schedule of the guard patrols, unnecessary attention was the last thing needed. 

Talking about the needs. 

“Vernon, what’re you doing?” 

The door creaked and Roche rushed to the kitchen, clinging with the stove lid, thudding with the buckets and blocking the tiny room space with a wooden bath tub, which previously had been stored peacefully in the corner. Waiting for their occasional joint night splash – it wasn’t spacious enough for their love – but they managed somehow. 

“I seem to get the idea, Vernon...” 

“I am afraid you don’t...” 

Iorveth’s smile stumbled over the husband’s tired and alarmed look. He seemed to be really afraid. 

Roche moved a small bench to the bath tub and pointed at it in an exhausted manner: 

“Take off your hellishly soaked boots and sit down...Kaz...” 

Iorveth made a step, kicking off the dirty hunting boots, which had already left the slimy swampy trace on a freshly-swept floor. The water embraced his pale feet with the veins of a tenderly blue – like the flowers on a porcelain cup – color. Hellishly pleasant warmness. 

The elf unfastened fibula-like lily brooch holding the cloak on the Vernon’s shoulders. His Temerian husband was warm and embracing under heavy woolen cloth. 

“Kaz what? Are you angry with me in some way?” 

Roche poured more water from the jug and eased onto the stool. 

“Not at least, and you still do not understand. Running around the whole forest only in this tiny tunic of yours! Even at the war – when there’d been a war between us – you seemed to collect the whole hell of torn shabby light armor to... not even taking care that... that one day you would get your feet wet and... die from a simple cold!” 

Vernon put the hand to his eyes. 

“Vernon...Hubby, oh...” Iorveth stretched the arms to hug the Temerian. 

Stroking his back, shoulders and the grown hair, in which the forget-me-nots were still entangled, he lullabied Vernon’s fears with a whisper: 

“Geatwe, I will take care in the future... I can even wear the thickest socks ever existed in the world. And please, please, know – I am the elf, bound to the nature, to its rains and winds, and I am not...to die from a cold. And not to leave you.” 

Instead of calming down, Iorveth found himself hesitating – whether it was his turn to cry, as Vernon did such a thing... 

Upon taking the clean towel from the stove, Roche made an elegant clearly understandable movement, thus, asking the elf to raise his feet from the tub. Getting hold of them before Iorveth would make a step on the floor, Vernon rubbed the feet of his elf dry one by one in a caring way so that not a drop of warmth would escape in vain. Or escaped the vein. 

Iorveth sat still breathing like he had just chocked on something. It was only his mother who had done thing like that – when their whole little elven family was fifty years younger, and Iorveth had seen no more than five rainy windy springs by then. 

Getting no idea what to do next, Vernon started observing the mess he had just done. They had just done. 

“Vernon... Could you please give me a kiss.” 

Dh’oine husband raised the eyes from the mess in astonishment. 

Because for them it had always ended with a kiss. And not started. Except for one time. The first one. 

Kiss had been the thing to seal. Like the seal on a peaceful treaty. Ending the years of gruesome losses and loneliness. That’s how the scarred upper lip touch between the Vernon’s shoulder blades had been felt. Or the ticklish rub of stubble against that particularly sensitive spot on the Iorveth’s chest. 

Kisses had been the flowers to blossom on the battle fields of their scarred bodies. No borders or prohibited areas had existed for their kisses. Except for one. Their lips. 

Precious nights, when their bated breaths had finally blossomed into the air-light moans, had been passing by. And yet the impalpable barrier preventing their lips from gentle touch still existed. Vernon had never insisted on breaking it. He had just kept doing the allowable – following the road of Iorveth’s scar. 

Vernon sat closer. Just a little bit. 

The elf’s plait was still wet from their morning rain, and the stray strand of hair fell on his eye closed in expectation. 

The Temerian exhaled as if asking for the last permission with his breath. Intertwining their breaths, Roche held his lip near the soft mouth of the husband. He remembered the first scratchy scarred touch, and how it softened running along his spine. Vernon was so relaxed that he didn’t even want to think whether Iorveth would remember his kisses after the death would do them apart. One day. 

Iorveth was still sitting. Wordless. Just pressing the Roche’s palm closer to his torso. Or maybe some words were still needed... 

“Why didn’t you let me do it earlier, Iorveth?” 

“Kaz’ our kiss had always ended something. And never began. Except for one time. And I was afraid. To begin something that might end. I was so afraid...” 

“And yet we’d been brave. Once. To begin.” 

“And not the only once.” 

Iorveth closed his lips to his husband’s ones. 

“And what shall we do further?” 

“We still have a mess to do with.” Vernon occasionally dropped the towel to the tub. While making his husband’s scar softer with a kiss. One more time. 


End file.
